


A Brush With Death

by Dickbutt



Series: Dickbutt Writes Again [9]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Near Death Experiences, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickbutt/pseuds/Dickbutt
Summary: When you have a brush with death, take care to think of those that care about you.





	1. Reinhardt

**Author's Note:**

> Original reqeuest: S/o almost dies in battle, the boys reaction? Reinhardt, soldier 76 and Roadhog?
> 
> Originally posted at: [Dickbutt Writes Again](http://dickbutt-writes-again.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> ...I'm still very good at titling things please believe me I'm not lying

He’s still crying by the time Mercy backs off and declares you stable. It was a bit of a rush job, given that the team was still trapped in an active combat zone, but the bleeding has stopped, and the ache of your fractured bones has all but receded under the glow of the Caduceus staff. You’re still bleary in a combination of your injuries and the rush of sudden healing, so you miss whatever hushed conversation that Mercy is having with Reinhardt, but at some point, his large arms scoop underneath your ragdolled body and heft you close to his body.

With a nod to Reinhardt, Mercy takes off, likely to go chasing after your teammates and patch up their various injuries. Reinhardt heads in the opposite direction, toward the dropship, thankfully unopposed, but it’s at this point that your head halfway-pulls together and you start protesting.

“Rein, no, we gotta… we gotta get back in the fight.  Th… the team needs us…”

He shakes his head, and as your vision comes back into focus, you notice just how red his eyes are. And afterward comes the surprise that he is no longer wearing his helmet. “ _Nein,_ the fight is already over. We are going home.”

You stare at him in confusion; a pounding starts anew at the back of your head. His voice is quieter than you can ever recall hearing it, soft and almost sad. You reach for his face, or at least desire to, but your arm refuses to cooperate. Pain radiates from the limb.

“But… what happened…?”

You can hear more than feel the deep rise and fall of his chest, and wish distantly that he was out of his armor so you could revel in his comfortable warmth. He starts speaking again, at the edge of your consciousness.

“…You were so still, _liebling._ And there was so much blood. Angela… she almost did not make it in time.” He clears his throat, the words starting to choke him up. “I am glad she did. I am glad you are still with me.”

Your hand thumps against his armor; it was meant to be a gentler motion, but your fine motor control was lost for the moment. He stares down at you, eyes still damp and crinkled at the edges and you offer him a small smile – he smiles back, fond. Weariness pulls at the edges of your vision and you let it take you. You sigh.

“I’m glad you’re with me too. I’m glad you’re here.”


	2. Soldier: 76

When you wake in the medbay, you can honestly say that Mercy looks surprised to see you conscious. She immediately inundates you with questions, until you complain of a headache, then she backs off, chagrined. She informs you, quietly, that she almost thought you wouldn’t make it – confirming your suspicions. You remember – very faintly – the fight that took you out. Of the white-hot pain blooming from your chest, radiating from your core like a slow explosion.

You sit up, your body protesting the motion, and talk with her for a while: How the mission ended (the most important) how long you’ve been out, how the team’s been faring without you. She checks your vitals as you chat amicably, surprisingly light for the context, but when you bring up a certain Soldier, she becomes immediately taciturn.

“Get some rest,” she advises. “I should inform everyone of the news. I’ll come see you later.”

It immediately strikes you as suspicious, especially as one by one everyone comes to visit you except for him. You briefly wonder if he’s gone and gotten himself injured too, but Mercy immediately eliminates that possibility. A fury bubbles up inside you; you know exactly what’s going on. It hurts – in more than one way – but all you need to do is bide your time in order to get done what needs to be done.

Suffice to say, Jack is surprised when you turn up in his quarters, leaning heavily on a crutch, sweating and exhausted. You’ve caught him without the mask on and he all but jumps up from his desk, likely intent on shooing you back to the infirmary.

“What the hell are you doing up? You need to be _resting_ – ”

“Cut the bullshit, Jack.” You hobble a little, trying to stay standing, hoping the expression on your face is as fierce as you imagine it to be. “Don’t you _dare_ fucking tell me that you’re blaming yourself for me getting hurt again. We’ve been through this.”

He looks you up and down, brow pinched, as he’s torn between defending himself and slinging you over his shoulder to drag you back to your room in the medbay himself. You watch him swallow, exhale loudly through his nose.

“…I was supposed to be looking out for you. Then I turn away and – ”

“ –Oh for _fuck’s_ sake – ”

“ – you go and get yourself injured! How many times does this have to happen?”

You want to throw your arms up – you almost do, but the start of the motion sends you off balance and you have to hunch against the crutch again.

“We’re _soldiers_ , Jack! Or did you forget that?”

He suddenly looks ashamed, refuses to meet your gaze and you sigh. You limp your way closer to him, grab him by the chin and force him to look at you. His eyes dart over your face, from one point to another, never settling. You squeeze slightly.

“It’s in our job description – this won’t be the last time this happens. You _know_ this. We’re _prepared_ for this.” Your eyes soften, and you lower them; you wanted so much to maintain a façade of strength, come out of this with a point proven. The hand holding his face drops. “…You would have done the same for me.”

He reaches over, brushes this thumb over your cheek, leans in to press his lips to your forehead.

“I just… can’t stand thinking of losing you because of something I did.”

“Then don’t think about it.”

He says your name harshly, but you shake your head, gasp a little bit for breath. All his protesting dies in his throat.

“We’ll argue about it later – right now my legs feel like jelly and I _really_ need some pain medicine.”

You want him to laugh about it with you, but his face remains stern, even as he walks you back to the infirmary. At least his touch is gentle; at least he lets you get back on your own two feet.

It’s progress.


	3. Roadhog

In the Outback, death is unavoidable. The weak perish and the strong do the killing; he’s definitely done his fair share of killing. Gore and violence and dying is a daily occurrence, and he’s long since desensitized to it.

But staring down at your gasping form, blood bubbling up from between your lips in between rattling breaths – this, this feels different.

He stares down at you with all the clinical distance of a medical professional; he can’t let emotions rule him, not with the fight still going on in the distance. A fire burns nearby and he can hear the low, pained cries of those he didn’t care to finish off. There were more important things at hand, anyway. He crouches at your side.

As loath as he is to admit it, this is not something that he’s prepared – or equipped – to handle. The Overwatch medic would be of some use, or even the tiny DJ, but as it is, he’s the only one there. He glances down to you again, knows his face is impassive to you, but hopes his presence brings you some comfort through what is no doubt intense pain. It’s something he could shrug off with no problem, just patch it up later – but he has to keep in mind, you _aren’t_ him.

He can’t buy time with thinking – he has to act.

He pries the mask from his face (doesn’t miss the way your eyes widen immediately) and ever so gently, incredibly mindful of your own pain, he straps the mask over your head, settling it over your face, although the size was off. Your hand reaches up, fingertips barely grazing the stubbled side of his cheek. The limb shakes. He takes your hand and engulfs it in the palm of his large one, instructing you to breathe deep. You do so to the best of your ability.

Still holding your hand, he hooks a canister up to the mask, releases the mechanism. You cough faintly, muffled by his mask, your body convulsing with the breaths. He tries not to flinch, though his mouth tightens into a flat line.

“Mako…” comes your broken whisper.

“Shhhh…” His free hand smoothes over your hair, settles on your shoulder. “Breathe.”

He is, surprisingly, not as glad as he thought he’d be that Junkrat isn’t there with his incessant babbling, to distract him. Your breathing grows weaker, despite his insistence of you to take deep breaths, and your hand grows limp in his palm. He can’t see your injuries, can’t assess the damage for himself, can’t put pressure on something if he isn’t sure it won’t hurt you more. He holds your hand, squeezes maybe a little too tightly, but you don’t respond.

You’re too quiet.

A shout comes from behind him – the Overwatch agents. He must be blocking the view of you, because the blonde medic goes to check him first. He is perhaps a bit too brusque in brushing off her attention, but he grunts your name, directs her to you instead, still uncomfortable with the way your chest barely rises. He shouldn’t have given you his mask, he can’t see your face, can’t tell if you’re still awake.

The medic works her trade, and eventually your hand squeezes back, breath rushing into your lungs with a deep gasp. The tightness in his chest eases at last. And when she’s finished, the medic eyes him warily, even as you sit up, fumble with the mask on your face to return it. He nods once, too absorbed in the thought of you being alright to utter a proper thanks.

Roadhog rights the mask, falling back into the full persona, and helps you to your feet.

“Can you walk?” he rumbles. When you nod, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “…Good. Let’s go.”  


End file.
